Page 66 of Tater
The dragon inside her coiled tighter.
“They follow the scent,”it whispered. “Let me end it.”
“Not yet,” she hissed into the wind. “Not until I know who sent them.”
The road ahead curved through a low canyon, walls rising on either side—bad place for running, worse for hiding. She dropped a gear, felt the back tire bite, the Harley leaning into the curve like it knew her heartbeat.
A flash in her mirror—one headlight now, closer.
Ren gritted her teeth. “Alright, boys,” she muttered. “Let’s fuckin’ dance.”
She yanked the throttle open, the bike snarling forward. Gravel spat from under her tires, sparks from the mufflerkicking up like fireflies. The pickup matched her, engine howling.
When the canyon opened again, she cut right off the asphalt and onto a dirt access road that paralleled the old train line. The bike bucked under her, suspension rattling her bones.
Behind her, the pickup overshot the curve, skidded, fishtailed—and still came on.
“They will not stop,”the dragon said, voice curling through her skull like smoke.
“Good,” she whispered. “Neither will I.”
The dirt road climbed a low ridge, then dropped toward a dry creek bed. Ren hit it hard, the front wheel catching air for half a breath before slamming down. Pain shot through her shoulder where the old wound lived.
She grinned through it. “Still faster than you, bastard.”
The truck hit the same drop too heavily, bottomed out, sparks spilling from its undercarriage. It slowed for half a heartbeat, and Ren saw her chance.
She cut left, back onto the highway, the tires screaming as they met asphalt again.
She hit her comm switch, praying the signal would find life beyond the jammer’s reach. “Boise base, this is Raven. Ghosts on me. Repeat—Ghosts on me. Mile marker—” Static devoured the rest.
No answer.
“You are alone,”the dragon murmured.
Ren laughed, low and breathless. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
She reached down, flipped the hidden switch Tater had wired under her tank—a trick they’d used back in Nevada. The rear of the bike spat a burst of oil and smoke, the kind of cheap distraction that could save a life.
In her mirror, the pickup hit the patch and slewed sideways, headlights washing across the median. She didn’t wait to see if they recovered. She rode harder.
The sky ahead was lightening—first gray bleeding into the black. Dawn.
The dragon stirred again, not angry this time, but urgent. “They are calling others.”
Ren’s eyes flicked to the horizon. Sure enough, distant headlights appeared far ahead—two more vehicles cresting the ridge, too steady to be random.
A trap.
“Of course,” she muttered.
She scanned the road—a narrow bridge coming up over a riverbed. No shoulder, no cover. She could outrun the ones behind her, maybe, but not a blockade.
The dragon pressed against her ribs. “Then burn the bridge.”
Ren exhaled slow, calm. “Guess we try it your way, then.”
She reached back, felt the chain in her pocket. Its metal was warm now, pulsing faintly—as if remembering the hands it had passed through. Tater’s voice came back to her, quiet and steady: Ride safe, old lady. And if you can’t—make it worth the story.
